


Imagine: Cooking a traditional holiday dinner for the boys and the antics of your angelic company ensuring it’s anything but traditional (ft. the Winchesters and Jack Kline).

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [44]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family Dinners, Holidays, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 21:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16710154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Cooking a traditional holiday dinner for the boys and the antics of your angelic company ensuring it’s anything but traditional (ft. the Winchesters and Jack Kline).

Returning from the bunker’s kitchen with a steaming steel pot overflowing with  whipped mashed potatoes, you can’t help but notice the pristine emptiness of Castiel’s plate where it sits shoved slightly aside in the festive chaos of the map room spread. Sure, he doesn’t _need_ to eat, but seeing as you single-handedly did most of the prep for dinner, you feel like your celestial paramour could at least _feign_ interest. 

With the angel’s attention distracted by an animated Jack excitedly scooping a bit of this and that and everything in between with an oversize serving spoon directly into his widely grinning mouth, you plop a mountain of mash on the vacant dish and nudge Cas with your knee as you heave the remainder toward the center of the table and Sam and Dean’s eagerly waiting gullets. “My super special secret recipe!“ you announce with a wink when the angel’s blues lift askance.

“What’s the secret?” Jack steals a finger-sized dollop from Cas’ portion.

“Duh, it’s a secret,” Dean snorts, hoarding all three golden-crusted pies at his end of the table and out of the Nephilim’s uncouth reach; for once you’re actually kind of grateful for the Winchester’s pastry obsession.

Cas picks up a fork to prod the vaguely yellow impossibly fluffy yet somehow creamy concoction. Teasing a small pile onto the prongs, he conveys it with deliberate slowness, an expression of severe apprehension tensing his brow, into his mouth. Sifting the potatoes through his teeth and over his tongue, he swallows quickly and offers you a stiff smile.

“Well?” You plant a palm on your hip, eyes widened in expectation.

“They’re … smooth?” he mumbles, ducking his chin to his chest, obviously unsure if this is an acceptable answer and not wanting to offend you. 

Whatever, he _tried_. You liberate the angel’s pent anxiety with a soft smile and gentle squeeze of the shoulder; he relaxes instantly beneath your fingertips.

Jack leans nearer, mostly to rudely reach across the angel to grab more green bean casserole. “If you like the potatoes, you should try the stuffing,” the boy suggests, snatching the entire casserole dish and moving it on top of his plate. 

“Hey!” Dean wields his cranberry-sauced fork threateningly. “Leave some for the rest of us, that’s Sammy’s favorite.”

“It’s okay Dean.” Sam smiles. “He likes it too.”

Defeated, Dean scowls.

“Sorry,” Jack apologizes as you free the green bean casserole from his possession and pass it over to Sam before taking your own seat. The boy leans again toward Cas who sits squinting at the bowl of stuffing proffered by Sam. “It’s called stuffing because you stuff it up the turkey’s-”

“Hey! Watch the language!” you chide. Spearing a piece of turkey to transfer to your plate, you inhale a deep breath and loosen your belt in preparation of catching up with the fact everyone but Cas, who is currently sculpting his _smooth_ potatoes into a semblance of the Impala, is on a second or third helping of the 18 pound bird you thought for sure was big enough to serve five. Clearly you underestimated the gastronomic capacity of the two hunters and teenager who began to eat before the table was even fully set.

Jack’s grin widens at your shushing and he stifles a snicker with a spoonful of sugared peas. Instantly his mouth contorts at the corners in distaste. Grabbing Castiel’s disused napkin, peering around to ensure no one is watching, he spits the mushy green wad into the cotton and slides in back into its place beside the angel’s plate. Smugly satisfied the subterfuge went unnoticed, he grabs the tureen of gravy and proceeds to fill his mug to Dean’s silently rapt green-gawping horror.


End file.
